


A Cat Named Angie

by FujinoLover



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angie is not the cat, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:33:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4060171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FujinoLover/pseuds/FujinoLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy committed a petty crime. In her defense, she was only detaining the suspect whom had trespassed into her flat. A feline suspect, that was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cat Named Angie

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a scene from the movie _The Heat_ , where Sandra Bullock’s character was a lonely FBI agent who liked to kinda steal her neighbor’s cat to snuggle up with.

 

It was late night when Peggy arrived at her flat. She did not do much that day, yet she was tired to the bone. Being a director meant she had to sit tight on their conference room while her best team dispatched abroad to take down some lunatic faction. She hated every second of it. By the end, her team succeeded with minimum casualty, the whole radical group taken down, and she was drained mentally. However, her current state did not enough for her ever-alert mind to let the light shuffling inside her flat to slip her attention.

With renewed adrenaline rushing through her system (and there might be a tiny smirk on her lips, too), Peggy unlocked the door without a sound then crept inside. She toed off her heels and ditched her thick briefcase by the door. Her eyes took seconds to adapt to the low light, but nothing appeared to be amiss. The nutter who broke into her place was a blatant dip stick, because they did not even try to quiet down while messing her kitchen.

Peggy, a tad too daring, rounded the breakfast bar with no weapon in her hand. After the day she had, she expected a satisfying hand-to-hand fight would help her get better sleep. What she had not expected was for a black and white cat to be the perpetrator.

“Blimey!”

The feline, caught red-handed (pawed?) on its dustbin digging, jumped in surprise. To Peggy. Whose lifetime of training made her instinctively raised an arm to block the assault. But again, her training had not prepared her body to face the feline species. The cat managed to hang on the lapel of her stripped suit and clawed at her face, rewarding her jaw with three long scratches before it leaped onto nearby surface then ran off.

Peggy watched dark tail vanished through the slight gap of the open balcony slide door. She probably had forgotten to fully close it after being called in mid-exercising. Her hand came up to assess the newly acquired injury. It stung, but no blood. She still needed to disinfect it, though, after she calmed her racing heart.

A bloody cat had managed to land a surprise attack on her, at her own home. Peggy erupted into a laugh, leaning on the marble surface of the counter to keep herself straight. The whole day was utter bollocks.

#

The balcony door had been left ajar since. In a twisted way, Peggy hoped the feline would pay her a visit again. She had no intention of repeating their first encounter, so she had some canned cat food ready. It had nothing to do with the lack of her social life outside work and the weekend feast with the Jarvis household and sometimes Howard. It might, however, have something to do with the loneliness resonating off the walls of her empty flat.

(She put a toy mouse on her balcony.)

#

The toy mouse was gone, but the cat had not shown its tail for another two nights. Peggy purposely made some noise, as to alert her arrival. The feline tilted his head on her direction, lazily judging her messy appearance from its position lying on her sofa. Peggy got self-conscious from the look, running a hand on sweat-sticking hair. It did not make her any more presentable, especially not with the suspicious brown splotch marring the sleeve of her silk shirt.

“Oh, quit it, mate.”

The cat meowed. Peggy bit her lip to stop herself from meowing back. The git she ran on the way home had taken a swing at her head, the bum was on its way of forming and it might have cause the weird thought. She grinned anyway.

“Would you like some food?”

The word ‘food’ got the cat on all fours, but it did not come over. It waited until Peggy left the open can of tuna on the kitchen floor alone before making its move. By the time she finished taking the much needed shower, the can was empty and the cat was gone.

Peggy got the toy mouse back on the next night. A sign of gratefulness, she presumed. The gesture lit up her mood for the rest of the week.

#

Their on and off relationship went for another week. Peggy was off to DC for the first part of it, but the cat was able to eat with her in the same room by the time she was back. The tall scratching post on the corner did wonders. By early Saturday, the cat came over then rubbed the whole length of its body on her leg for the first time. She almost spilled the greenish fruits and veggies juice she was gulping down.

“Hello there,” Peggy greeted, albeit still standing stiff on her spot when the feline turned and repeated the motion. The soft fur brushing her bare calf eventually put her on ease. “You’re early today.”

The cat purred.

Slowly, cautiously, Peggy lowered herself into a crouching position. The cat was not phased with their new proximity. From up close, she was able to count the number of its whiskers and see its bright grey eyes. She was about to tear up when it nuzzled her hand, silently asking for a petting she was more than willing to give.

“What’s your name, hmm?” Peggy wondered, turning its collar around in hope for an answer. She found one engraved on the silver nameplate etched on its blue collar. Immediately, one of her brows shot up in confusion. “Angie?”

The cat meowed.

“That’s quite an odd name for a male cat.”

#

Angie, the male cat—Peggy had the need to emphasize that particular part, it was too bizarre—paid visit more frequently. It had more to do with the mini catnip plant she purchased to adorn her coffee table, but she preferred to believe he was coming to see her on his own volition instead. She was being silly.

“Where do you live, Angie?”

Peggy ignored the fact that Angie did not even look up from his food. They had developed the new habit of having one-side conversation with few responses from the feline side. It was much like a one night stand, with Angie leaving Peggy after he got what he wanted from her every night.

“The bloke from next door and his lovely boyfriend don’t seem to fancy any kind of pets. Could it be the one down the hall?”

Angie left without letting Peggy pet him. She learned that asking about his place was a sensitive subject and never brought it up again.

#

Peggy felt awful. She got a hard lesson for handling a mission herself and without telling her subordinates. She got out alive, unlike the other guys, but not without consequences. Sousa had to drive her home and tuck her in. She had not left the comfort of her bed ever since.

Sometime during the night, while she drifted on and off to sleep, Angie had come. From her one good eye, Peggy watched him watching her. She was crestfallen when he turned to left, but then he showed up again with the toy mouse. He then leaped onto the bed and curled on top of her.

Peggy woke up smiling, despite the cut on the corner of her lip. Angie had stayed through the night. Although she found that waking up to him staring at her was quite unsettling, she did not say a thing.

She had just finished her morning business when the bell rang and she shuffled slowly across the hall to answer the door. A woman with dark blonde hair was standing at her door. She did not appear to be a threat, not with her bright pink PJs that had white bunnies printed all over it, but Peggy knew she could never be too careful. She retrieved her gun from the drawer and tucked it on the back of her sweatpants before opening the door. Words assaulted her in an instant.

“Hi, hello. Sorry to bother you. I’m Angie Martinelli from 3C.”

“Angie?” Peggy repeated, asking, but was ignored.

“I can’t find my cat,” Angie said, looking over Peggy’s shoulder and into her apartment in hope of spotting her rebellious cat. “He likes to go for a couple hours, but he has been gone since last—oh my God, what happened to you?”

“It’s nothing.” Peggy tried to wave it off, but Angie did not buy it. With a sigh, she admitted, “I fell off...the stairs...?”

“If you said so, English.” Angie’s eyes narrowed dangerously, giving an entirely different answer.

“It’s Peggy. Now about the cat you’re looking for—“ right on clue, Angie the cat (that now Peggy doubted as its name) sneaked from between Peggy’s legs to greet Angie the human “—is this him?”

“Yes, yes.” Angie then welcomed him onto her arms, tapping his head lightly. “You bad kitty,” she scolded.

Angie was definitely _not_ his name, but it was a beautiful name that suited the beautiful person who owned him.

#

Angie, not the cat, was moving—flowing, actually—around Peggy’s kitchen with the grace of a seasoned dancer. She had insisted on cooking brunch for her. With her swollen eye, busted lip, and sprained ankle, Peggy could do little to fight it off. Even if she wanted too, Angie was very persistent that the Englishwoman somehow got talked into sitting on the sofa and put cold compress on her eye then lip consecutively. She even had warm tea with milk and sugar, just as she liked, to sip on while the pots and pans clang harmoniously on the background. Peggy closed her eyed and let out a content sigh. It felt heartwarmingly domestic.

Until all of a sudden, it stopped.

“Peg, you sure you ain’t tryin’ to steal Howard from me?”

There were so many errors in that lone sentence that Peggy had to raise her head from the back of the sofa and look at Angie on the eye. It was a mistake. Angie had discovered the one cabinet which might or might not house the food and toys she had bought for the cat.

“I have no idea of what you’re talking about, darling.” Peggy leaned back as heat rose on her cheeks. “But please tell me you didn’t name him—“ she motioned to the ball of fur curling comfortably on her lap “—by such name.”

Angie waggled her brows, a knowing grin playing on her lips. “Yea, that scratching post and fresh catnip told me just that. And his name is Howard, what’s wrong with that? If you’re talkin’ about the name on his collar, it was the pet store guy’s fault.” She shrugged off nonchalantly.

Peggy burst out laughing. Howard the cat clawed at her arm for disturbing his nap and she laughed harder until she felt stitches on her sides.

“You’re crazy,” Angie admonished, shaking her head.

The activity on the kitchen resumed. Angie hummed whatever song that came to her mind while she hunted for ingredients. It was not until she commented on the lack of bacon that Peggy responded to her.

“You really don’t need to do this, Angie. I’m quite all right. A friend of mine will come over and bring—“

“Shut up, English.”

Angie had one hand at her hip and the other waving around a spatula rather threateningly. Peggy would ridicule herself for the instance she felt fear crawling on her spine—fear of tiny, pretty Italian lady commanding her kitchen—if not for the narrowed blue eyes piercing through her own and effectively stole her very soul. She ducked her eyes to her cuppa. Too bad, though, Angie had padded to stand by the side of the sofa and was waiting for Peggy to notice her.

“I’m gonna fetch some real food from my place. Don’t you dare movin’ an inch, do you understand?”

There was no dangerous kitchenware at hand, but Peggy had the urge to salute Angie. “Yes, ma’am.”

Angie rolled her eyes, tad too dramatic, and then left briskly. This Angie, much like the cat, Peggy would love to keep around in her flat. Not in the criminal way and with less bribing involved, obviously.

 


End file.
